Shudder
by Palmviolet
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was meant to be dead. Everyone thought so, until two years after his 'suicide.' Now he's back and it's not only national security on the line, it's his life and the lives of those around him. My version of Series 3/AU. Rated for gore, swearing, drugs, death and very dark writing. Adlerlock. Lestrade and Irene's POV
1. Prologue: The Ethics of Suicide

**Hi guys. I know I jump around with fanfics so much, but I just got into Sherlock and I want to try my version of Season 3. **

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but the words and idea. All characters and settings are owned by the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**Thank you! **

He stares down at the road, a million miles away from him. At least, it seems that way. A black abyss, something that he can never cross. His nemesis is dead, shot through the skull. Strange, the way he'd kill himself to see the destruction of the detective. Consulting detective, he corrects himself. If you invent a profession you need to stick to it or else you have to invent it again, and that's so incredibly dull. Oh, suicide is so boring. The regard for life, human life, your own life, it's held in such high regard. When in actual fact, suicide is rather common. Depression, debt, marriage troubles, all kinds of things can lead to suicide. Suicide is not a good way to go, in his opinion. It can, in its own way, be a personal victory. But a small one, and is it really worth giving your life? It's better to either live it out or get someone to do it for you. A favour for some bored detective. When he dies, he wants it to be interesting. A murder, perhaps. A weird weapon, a strange setting, a curious culprit. Normal death seems so tedious.  
He watches the people below him, on the street, go about their lives. One woman catches his attention. He can't read her. Fancy trench coat, long dress, expensive boots. But there's nothing he can read. He quickly tests himself on someone else. Scuffed shoes, plain clothes, cracked glasses, jeans covered in hairs. He works in a supermarket usually but this is his day off, he owns three cats.  
He turns his attention back to the woman he can't read. He somehow recognises her, and this is confirmed when she looks up. She sees him standing on the edge of the roof and smiles, and suddenly he knows her name.  
"Irene." He whispers, his voice stolen by the wind. And now he knows when he will die, and it won't be now. He slowly steps off the edge, a plan forming in his mind. "This will befuddle you, won't it." He mutters to himself, a smile sneaking onto his thin lips. "Oh yes, it will. It will indeed."

**COMING SOON**

**The Next Chapter**, in which Sherlock returns.


	2. Lestrade: Resurrection

**Hi people. Just to warn you, most of the rest will be in Lestrade's POV. Please R & R. Sorry this chapter is quite short.**

**Disclaimer: See Prologue.**

**Wednesday 9th January**

**14:01**

**Scotland Yard**

I freeze as I see him, wandering casually across the screen as if he had never been away. Coat wrapped tightly around him, collar pulled up like a cartoon spy, gaze peeking shiftily out from beneath masses of curly brown hair.  
"He's back. He's bloody back." I mutter, shaking my head. "He jumps off a building, no explanation no nothing, and now he just comes back into our lives, after two whole bloody years!"  
"What's that?" Sally asks, plonking herself on the desk opposite me.  
"Sherlock damn Holmes is on that bloody screen right now!" I yell, getting up and starting pacing. I rub my forehead and pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache forming.  
My colleague stares at me as if I'm crazy. "But... There was no way he could have survived that. None at all."  
"Yes, I wonder how he did it?" I question sarcastically, watching the sky.  
Suddenly Sally touches my shoulder lightly. I glance at the screen, before doing a double take. Sherlock is right below the camera, staring into the lens. His lips move and I fumble with the sound, turing it up incredibly loud by accident.  
"Magic," Sherlock says, grinning that awfully annoying Sherlock-grin.  
Everyone in the room hears it, and I hastily turn the sound down. It's too late though.  
"Excuse me, was-was that..." A young man, a secretary by the look of him, trails off.  
I sigh, before moving to the centre of the room. "SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES IS BLOODY ALIVE AND BLOODY WALKING THE BLOODY STREETS OF BLOODY LONDON. FULL BLOODY STOP. Any questions?" I finish rudely, glaring at anyone who meets my gaze. On the screen, Sherlock chuckles.  
"Pretty impressive," he comments. I have no idea how he can even hear us. Probably his bloody 'powers of deduction' rubbish. "Baker Street, half an hour."

**14:36**

**Baker Street**

I stamp my feet, digging my hands further into my suit pockets. God I wish I'd brought a coat. Snow swirls around me, biting my face and neck. It's all right for Sherlock. He's got that bloody trench coat and that bloody scarf.  
He arrives slightly late, looking the same as always. Well, almost the same. He's even skinner, if it's possible.  
"Sherlock," I say in greeting, and I'm met with a gust of wind as he sweeps past towards the door of 221B. I sigh and follow him. "Same old Sherlock, then?"  
Sherlock doesn't turn around. "No."  
I frown, but reply with silence. It'll speak volumes to the detective.

**14:39**

**221B Baker Street**

"You still have a key?!" I exclaim, as Sherlock starts to unlock the door.  
He doesn't answer, just pushes the door open.  
I hear John calling from inside. "Mrs Hudson?" He calls, and I catch a glimpse of him standing up through the widening crack in the doorway.  
Sherlock enters first, so I don't see John's initial reaction. The jumbled emotions on his face are enough though, when I follow Sherlock. I almost crack up, before realising it's not really an appropriate time.  
There's an awkward silence before John breaks it. "So all the comments are true."  
"Comments?" Sherlock frowns, doing the Sherlock-I'm-not-actually-confused-but-I'll-look-like-it-to-make-John/Lestrade-feel-clever look.  
John waves his laptop around impatiently, as much as you can wave a laptop. "On my blog." He clicks something and a list of comments come up.  
"'Hashtag Sherlock lives?'" I question incredulously. "'Sherlock survived?' 'Sherlock is alive?'"  
John nods and I glance at Sherlock. "Was that you?"  
"No, of course it wasn't." He snaps. "If you care to look, some of those comments were posted two years ago. I didn't have wifi two years ago."  
"On that subject, how did you fake your suicide, and where were you for two years?" I ask bitterly. Sherlock avoids my gaze.  
John sighs in frustration. "I give up. I actually give up."

**Thursday 10th January**

**10:17**

**Scotland Yard**

"Look at this!" Sally hisses, thrusting a newspaper in my face. I catch it and hold it at arm's length to read it.  
"'Police Made Fools of By Reappearance of 'Fake' Detective.' Really?" I read out, crossing my arms. "Do they still think he's fake? Because anyone who can fake their suicide and hide successfully for two years is a genius, in my opinion."  
Sally sighs in resignation. "Anyway, we have a case. Look at this." She passes me an envelope.  
I open it, pulling out the note folded within. It's cut out from magazine letters.  
'I has bom. I use it to blow up seat of hiest power. I do it tomorow at 11:00.' It reads. "What's with the spelling?" I ask, still trying to puzzle it out.  
Sally shrugs. "No idea. To make us think he's stupid?"  
I shake my head slowly. "No."  
"Greg..." She warns, slowly realising what I'm about to say.  
"We'll get Sherlock in." I say, grinning.  
"He's a psychopath. Who knows what he's been doing for the last two years? He's probably even more messed up than before."  
I sigh. "He may be messed up but he's more clever than most of Scotland Yard put together."

**COMING SOON**

**The Next Chapter, in which Sherlock reviews the note.**


	3. Lestrade: Are You A Psychopath Bomber?

**Hi. Some people may think they see Johnlock in this chapter, and if they do that is not intentional. Think of it as Johnlock if you wish, but I didn't intend for you to. **

**Enjoy!**

**Thursday 10th January**

**11:06**

**Scotland Yard**

Sherlock turns the note over in his hands, inspecting every inch of it. I don't know what he sees that we didn't, but that's Sherlock for you.  
"The writer is foreign." He says finally. "Semi-rich. A man. Probably Middle Eastern. Has marriage troubles, adulterer, owns a white cat."  
"How do you know?" I ask, knowing I'll get a long and complicated answer.  
Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. "However do you cope in those tiny brains? He's obviously foreign - the spelling and grammatical errors, and he can't be simple since the concept is too clever. Unless of course he's acting on the orders of someone else, which I doubt. He spells his words and uses grammar like a Middle Eastern acquaintance of mine.* The pen he uses is good quality, probably expensive. His handwriting is very masculine, however it's shaky and is smudged where he probably turned round in a hurry - therefore he was writing this in secret. He was hiding it from someone, presumably his wife, and that shows that he has marriage troubles- why else would he hide the note? However there are words in feminine handwriting, an accomplice, and there's probably a connection between them. The cat part is easy- the white hairs all over the note, too fine to be a dog's. Happy?"  
We all stand in shocked silence. Sherlock's good.  
"What are we doing standing around? This time tomorrow the bloody Houses of Parliament will have been blown up!" I announce.  
"We're standing around because we need information." Sherlock replies irritably. "We need a lead." He pauses, then gets out his phone. I lean over his shoulder, watching him type. "Do we have a list of immigrants from the Middle East?" He asks roughly and I look at Sally.  
"Yes. I'll just get it up for you, shall I?" She replies sarcastically. I can see Sherlock studying her carefully, and I'd warn her but it would be no use.  
"How's the ex?" He comments abruptly. Shock crosses Sally's face, chased off by annoyance.  
"Can we, um, stick to business?" John interrupts, the first input he's put into the conversation.  
Sally shoots Sherlock a glare which he returns with a satisfied smirk. She bends over a computer, and within minutes she's got a page open.  
"I need a printout, or a copy sent to my phone." Sherlock says, oblivious or simply ignoring the death-glares Sally is giving him.  
"This isn't exactly news to you, freak, but we're not really meant to share resources with amateurs." She spits the last word out like venom. "Unlike my colleague here, I abide by police rules."  
Now it's my turn to glare. "I am your superior and you will print that page out." I hate using my position over people, pulling rank as they call it in the army, but Sally really does get on my nerves.

* * *

***I have no idea how Middle Eastern people spell english words when they're not very fluent. I'm just guessing.**

* * *

We watch as Sherlock studies the list, hanging around. He occasionally makes notes with a hastily provided biro, and ten minutes later he's done.  
"Our suspects are Akbar something-I-can't-pronounce, Amon something-else-I-can't-pronounce and Fahd something-even-harder-to-pronounce." He states.  
"Only three?" John questions. "That list is a half-page long. How did you narrow it down?"  
"Never mind that," Sherlock snaps. I stare at him. In all the time I've known him, he's never turned down an opportunity to show off. "We need to go to the addresses of each of these, and question them. I'll take Akbar, you take Amon," He gestures to me, "and you take Fahd." He points at John.

**15:34**

**Shalhoub's Flat**

"Amon Shalhoub?" I ask, pronouncing the surname with difficulty. The man who opens the door is quite young, with olive skin and a black beard and moustache.  
"Yes, yes." He replies, his accent heavy. "Come in." I'm surprised at his trust in me, not having asked me my name and business. Definitely not a psycho terrorist.  
He leads me to a tiny sitting room and we sit on a low, squashy sofa. I glance around. The room is decorated in an outdated, eighties sort of style.  
"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Would you mind answering a few questions?" I ask, having a sudden flash of doubt. After all it will be terribly humiliating if the note is just a prank and we arrest someone for no reason, other than pranking the police.  
Amon nods and I continue. "Is anyone else home?"  
"Only Rosie," he pronounces the english name with difficulty,"the-the writing girl? Is that what you say?"  
"Secretary."Ah. That could be the lover. "And your wife?"  
"Out shopping." Comes the reply.  
So I might have caught the terrorist. Better make sure though. "What do you do for a living, Mr Shalhoub?" There's confusion on his face. I'd better clarify. "What's your work?"  
Understanding dawns. "I'm a cab driver."  
"Why do you need a secretary then?"  
"Oh, the sec-secretary is my wife's. She's a pol- poli- politician." Amon seems wary of the question and that raises my suspicions, though if husband and wife don't get on I don't see why she'd give him money to spend on expensive pens. So that rules him out.  
"Thank you for your time," I say. "I'll show myself out."

**17:31**

**221B Baker Street**

"I don't think you understand. I, unlike you, have a life now. It's not going to be like the old times! I'm not going to just drop everything and come on a case with you." The raised voices grab my attention. That's John.  
"You did it willingly enough today!" Comes the retort from Sherlock.  
There's a long silence. "Why did you fake it? If you are a fraud? We thought you were dead."  
I'm shocked. Of everyone, I thought John was the one who never stopped believing Sherlock.  
"Yeah, that's kind of the point." Sherlock replies sarcastically. Typical. There's a crash and I jump, hurrying through the doorway. The detective is slumped against the wall, glaring fiercely at John, blood trickling down his lower lip. Suddenly he leaps up, landing a punch on the doctor's nose. John clutches Sherlock in a stranglehold and a kick lands in a painful place. I jump between them, pushing them apart. There's a wild look in Sherlock's eyes, a look I haven't seen before. It scares me slightly.  
"John, do you have somewhere else to go?" I ask forcefully.  
He looks shocked and affronted that I asked him. "Yeah, yeah I do." He grabs his jacket off the back of a chair and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

**COMING SOON**

**The Next Chapter, in which Lestrade and Sherlock investigate Fahd.**


	4. Lestrade: Of Guns And Bombs

**Hi people. Sorry this chapter is quite short. Irene makes her first proper appearance! Yay! I'm not sure I got her character quite right, so I apologise if you don't recognise her from her speech. Please R & R! Criticism is welcome, as long as it isn't too cutting. **:)

**Thursday 10th January**

**17:47**

**221B Baker Street**

"Did he manage to tell you what happened in the interview before he started beating you up?" I ask.  
Sherlock doesn't glance up from where he's stretched out on the couch, fingers templed, thinking. "No. But it was probably not good. And he didn't beat me up. We need to go there." He sits up. "Now."

**17:59**

**Fahd's House**

Ten minutes later we're stood outside a kicked-in red door. I stare at it nervously, and Sherlock notices my discomfort.  
"Come on, you're a detective inspector. You've been to plenty of crime scenes." He smirks.  
I glare at him, before leading the way inside. The corridor is trashed, with smashed glass and other things on the wooden floor. There's a muffled whimper and I beckon for Sherlock to follow me into the room. The scene is not a nice one.  
A strange but beautiful woman reclines elegantly on a chair, despite the gun pointed to her head. Sherlock seems to recognise her, judging by his sharp release of breath.  
A Middle Eastern man is stood next to her, holding the gun. There's a crazy, demented look in his eyes and his hands are shaking.  
"Sherlock." The woman states, showing not the slightest bit of fear.  
The detective tenses. "Irene."  
"Wait a second. That's The Woman?! That's Irene Adler?!" I hiss in Sherlock's ear. He glares at me and turns his attention back to the situation at hand.  
"The famous Sherlock Holmes, baited into a trap by a woman." The man with the gun says, his english fluent despite his origins.  
"Wouldn't be the first time." Irene smirks.  
"I seem to have a different memory of that occasion. It wasn't really the most intelligent thing you've ever done, was it? Setting your phone password to 'SHER', considering the phone was your whole life." Sherlock shoots back, and I'm amazed at the friendly banter between them.  
"Enough. You will cooperate, or Miss Adler dies." The man says, Fahd I think his name was?  
Sherlock sighs. I reach inside my coat pocket, swiftly pulling out a gun. It serves as a diversion, as Fahd watches me instead of Sherlock, who uses the distraction to mouth something at Irene.  
"Drop the weapon," Fahd snarls, his voice dry. "Or I pull the trigger."  
"You won't actually do that." Sherlock says with a coy smile.  
Fahd raises his eyebrows. "Oh?"  
"No. Because then you'll have no one to use against me. And you don't want that." The detective explains, the small smile exaggerating into a grin.  
Fahd looks defeated for a moment, before he puts his gun away and produces a knife. "I can't kill her, but don't you think she needs a few scars? She's rather pretty, isn't she."  
Even Sherlock and Irene look nervous now. I aim the gun at Fahd's chest.  
The next few moments seem to slow down. Sherlock is yelling "Run!" and I'm pulling the trigger, the gunshot pulling time back to its original speed. Irene jumps out of the way of Fahd's falling body, and relief rushes through me. We did it. We stopped a crazy psychopath bomber. But unease snags the back of my mind. Why is the house trashed? Why is Sherlock so anxious to leave?  
"There was someone else here. Why would he trash his own house? No, someone was here, searching for something, and hid." Sherlock answers my thoughts.  
"It wasn't the Middle Eastern man who took me." Irene adds, proving Sherlock's point.  
I gulp. "Let's move."

**18:33**

**221B Baker Street**

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock stretches out on the sofa like he had previously. I provide Irene and myself with coffee and we sit and wait, occasionally making small talk but being shushed violently by the detective.  
Eventually I sigh. "The second person could just have been a burglar, purely coincidental."  
"Lestrade, think. Use that minute brain of yours." Sherlock replies irritably. "The house of a terrorist, who happens to leave a note for Scotland Yard to stop him? I think the second person was the mastermind, possibly blackmailing Fahd, and Fahd wrote the note for us, without the permission of the second person. The second person has probably just found out, and maybe he was searching for the note in the hope Fahd hadn't delivered it. His accomplice, the other woman, is probably dead."  
"Ah. I always thought it was too clever for him. After all he's from Saudi- they don't have Parliament- he probably doesn't even know what Parliament is!" I lie.  
Realisation crosses Sherlock's face, and he opens his mouth. "Saudi Arabia- of course!" He exclaims, mostly to himself. Then dread flashes behind his gaze. He stands up abruptly. "Irene, Lestrade. We need to go." He starts walking purposefully towards the door, herding us before him. "Hurry up! We need to move. Now!"  
"Where are we goi-" Irene's question is cut short, as there's an earth-shattering explosion...

...and we're blown sky high.

**I know this is a huge cliffhanger, so sorry about that. :/ I assure you, they're not dead.**

**COMING SOON**

**The Next Chapter, in which Sally investigates the explosion.**


	5. Sally & Lestrade: Aftermath

**Hi people. Sorry about the cliffhanger in the previous chapter. This chapter has different POVs. I promised they wouldn't die, and they didn't. Please R & R.**

**This chapter is shorter because I don't have time to write more, and I'm going on holiday, where I probably won't have wifi. So I want to get an update posted to sort out this cliffhanger business.**

**Sally's POV**

**Thursday 10th January**

**18:42**

**Baker Street**

"Have you called John?" I ask hurriedly, my assistant struggling to keep up with my long strides.  
"Yes, he's on his way." The assistant says.  
I nod. "Good. Now go and speak to Mrs Hudson, try and calm her down." He nods, walking over to where she's seated on the back of the ambulance, a shock blanket draped around her shoulders.  
Anderson walks up to me, silently handing me a steaming coffee. I assess the situation while drinking it.  
221B is completely destroyed, and Baker Street is in complete mayhem. There are police cars and ambulances everywhere, with confused pedestrians littering the road. They're slowly being herded away as police tape is put up, but there are a few stragglers left.  
"Any sign of Lestrade or Sherlock?" I ask Anderson, for once using Sherlock's name.  
Anderson glances at me. "They're searching now. I don't think Freak deserves to be found."  
For some reason I'm angry at this comment, though I don't know why. "This is bigger than just Sherlock, Anderson. I suggest you grow up because if he's not found, many people will die."  
Anderson looks offended but just glares at me and walks off.  
Ten minutes later, a mysterious woman is found in the wreckage. She's revived and proceeds to tell us the exact spots where Greg and Sherlock should be. She's particularly concerned about Sherlock, which I find hard to believe.

**Lestrade's POV**

**18:58**

**221B Baker Street**

I slowly blink open my eyes, wondering why it's pitch black. Suddenly I remember and I sit up abruptly, gasping as a jolt of pain crosses my shoulder. I think it's dislocated, judging by the awkward angle.  
I glance around, seeing Sherlock lying perfectly still ahead of me. I'd think he was still unconscious, but his fingers are templed like they are when he's thinking. Slowly, I stand up, stopping every so often to wince.  
"Do you ever stop thinking?" I say sarcastically, surprised by how strong my voice sounds.  
Sherlock sighs. "If I announced to the world I was awake, I wouldn't any time to think." He sits up without a single noise although he looks worse than I probably do. His hair is slick with blood on one side and his arm is too, plus all the dust from the explosion.  
"If we were meant to die, that was a failed assassination attempt." I announce.  
Suddenly there are voices and a rescue team bursts through the doorway. We're taken outside to an ambulance and Irene and Sally greet us, relief on their faces.

**Friday 11th January**

**9:13**

**St Bart's Hospital**

"So, what exactly happened?" John asked, in an accusatory voice. I relate the story of our evening to him. "So he managed to get my home blown up? Trust Sherlock."  
I nod, glancing at Sherlock, who is stretched out on his hospital bed, fingers templed yet again. This case obviously requires a lot of thinking, at least on Sherlock's part.  
A nurse sits in a chair next to him, trying to test him for concussion. He's ignoring her.  
"Could you, erm, recite the months of the year backwards?" She asks hopefully. She's clearly new and is fazed by Sherlock's attitude. She's probably never had a difficult patient before. I decide to step in.  
"Sherlock, you need to answer her." I say firmly.  
Sherlock snorts. "I don't answer stupid questions when I'm on a case. Actually, I don't answer them at all."  
I put on an apologetic smile.  
A voice comes from behind us. "If Sherlock's out of danger, we need him."  
"Mycroft." Sherlock says, annoyance on his face.  
The nurse looks unsure. "I don't really think..."  
"It's a matter of national security. You won't get in trouble." Mycroft replies.  
The nurse reluctantly agrees.

**9:26**

**Taxi**

"Go over everything you said that evening, Lestrade and Irene." Sherlock says. He's forgotten what he realised just before the explosion.  
"That he could have been a burglar? That your coffee is disgusting?" I suggest.  
"No, no..." Sherlock makes a low keening noise, bemoaning the lost memory. "It's important."  
"Hang on." Irene bears an intense look of concentration on her face. "We were talking about Saudi. He was from Saudi..."  
"...And Saudi doesn't have Parliament. Of course!" Sherlock finishes with a hiss. "The seat of highest power for the bomber is the seat of the monarch." He explains, in reply to my confused look.  
"Buckingham Palace..." I whisper. I lean forward to the taxi driver. "Change of direction. We're going to Buckingham Palace."

**COMING SOON**

**The Next Chapter, in which Irene searches for the bomb.**


	6. Irene: To Blow Up A Palace

**Friday 11th January**

**10:46**

**Buckingham Palace**

**Irene's POV**

The sound of hushed bickering makes me duck down behind a crate. I peer over it cautiously, to see two men bent over another crate. They're both probably Middle Eastern and they both wear casual, scruffy clothes- nothing out of the ordinary. Jeans, white t-shirts, jackets. I try to think what Sherlock would make of them. He told me anyone can deduce facts from the simplest things, albeit not many facts.  
"Give me that! I know how to arm it." One man snarls viciously, snatching a test tube out of the other's hand. He begins to prepare a colourless substance to pour into the tube.  
I get my phone out and frantically text Sherlock.

_Found them. In shed east of palace. _

Barely two seconds later, I get a reply.

_Stay there, delay them if possible. We're coming. -SH_

I sigh, rolling my eyes. Talk about stating the obvious. I pull my handgun from my coat pocket and slowly stand up.  
"Freeze." I say. I'm not very good at this. I'm too pretty to be intimidating. At least, the two men seem to think so. They stare at me for a moment before chuckling."Looks like damsel wants us to freeze." The man with the two tubes says. "Damsel is about to be in distress." I glare at him, then bolt, hiding around the corner. I hear one start to come after me, but the other stops him.  
"Leave her. We need to finish up here. She won't get far." He says. I get my phone out again.

_There are agents around the shed. Watch out._

_Later we'll have dinner._

I type using one hand, my other hand on my gun. A reply comes quickly.

_We'll be fine. And we'll see. -SH_

I almost grin.  
I glance at the shed doorway, doing a double take when I see a schoolgirl leaning against the doorframe. She's in uniform, though she's wearing a hoodie over her blouse instead of a blazer and a wooly cat hat. White earphone wires can be seen under her mane of ginger hair and I glimpse the top of an iPhone in her hoodie pocket. She notices me staring at her and removes her earphones. I put my finger to my lips and she stares at me, one eyebrow raised, but remains silent.  
"Your name?" I mouth. She looks at me cynically, sizing me up, before replying.  
"Meredith," she mouths back. I nod and beckon for her to come forward. She does so warily, unsure whether to trust me. I peer around the corner and she copies me, and we both have to stifle gasps. Man With Tubes is lying on the floor, throat slashed brutally, blood everywhere, the stuff coating the other man's knife.  
We flatten ourselves against the wall as the man with the knife runs past, the bomb forgotten.  
"Stay here," I hiss in Meredith's ear, before readying my gun and sprinting after Man With Knife. When I get outside, he's disappeared down some alleyway and his agents are closing in. Out of nowhere, Sherlock and Lestrade appear, gunning down the agents. I shoot one and then Sherlock runs over to me and someone is wrapping me in a shock blanket and asking if I'm alright. I keep repeating 'I'm fine' but they don't seem to hear me. I'm not in shock, am I? I'm fine. I am.

**12:38**

**Scotland Yard**

"That's her," I confirm as Sherlock passes me a birth certificate. Her name is Meredith Wren Tailor, born in Ireland but raised in England. In her passport photo she's about ten, with her ginger hair in a plait down her shoulder and her face still rounded in childhood, before the angular shape it takes on in teenage years.  
"She's in real danger," Lestrade says. "We need to take her somewhere safe."  
"So, what exactly happened out there?" I ask.  
It's Sherlock who explains, naturally. "The accomplice of the mastermind was murdered by the mastermind, because he tried to inform us of the bomb's location. He didn't know that you'd already told us." He smiles at me.  
"And...?" I prompt, knowing he'll have been waiting for me to say it.  
"The phone next to the body- it wasn't picked up so the killer didn't want to be associated with the bomb. That implies that the phone would associate him with it, suggesting he contacted someone." Sherlock says.  
"Ahem, he sent you a text as well." Lestrade breaks in, smirking. The detective glares at him.

**13:52**

"The father's not to be trusted." Sherlock says quietly, leaning in close to me. I glance down into my gin and tonic- I'm unwilling to get too drunk but I need something relatively strong.  
I quickly peek at Meredith's dad- he's a tall, red-faced, ginger-haired man who is seated with a Middle Eastern man.  
"He's talking to one of the bombers." Sherlock continues, not noticing my discomfort. "He hasn't got a drink, so he's on serious business. He's being offered money to do something, and he looks uncertain about it." He finishes. "We need to talk to the mother. See if we can organise a holiday." He sighs.  
I grin. "I know what you're thinking..." Sherlock glares at me, but then relaxes. I take this as my cue to continue. "We're going to pretend to be husband and wife."

**EDIT: added places, times and dates.**

**COMING SOON**

**The Next Chapter, in which Sherlock and Irene take Meredith to a safe place.**


	7. Irene: Fight Or Flight

**Ok, so my competition completely failed. Only two people entered and they didn't make a character for it, they just did the riddles. (thanks for humouring me anyway). So I invented my own charrie for the part. **

**Sorry this chapter is so short, I've been really busy and I wanted to get something posted. You're all probably cursing me for how incompetent I am at portraying Irene, but she's hard and I've only seen her episode once. **

**Have any of you seen The Empty Hearse? I won't post any spoilers but I just want to know.**

**Please R & R! **

**Disclaimer: See first chapter**

**Friday 10th January**

**16:46**

**Meredith's House**

"Have you packed a bag?" Meredith's mum calls to her. She looks confused for a moment before Sherlock nods slightly and her face clears.  
"I just need my wash bag," she replies, lying with perfect ease. She's changed out of her school uniform, into white skinny jeans and a baggy green hoodie.  
She returns promptly, a satchel slung over her shoulder.  
"Have you got everything?" Her mum questions, staring doubtfully at her small bag.  
Meredith rolls her eyes and nods, before eagerly hurrying towards us where we're waiting in the doorway.  
"Hey Annie." She greets the girl with us easily, surprising since they've never met. She's a good liar.  
Annie is fifteen, with blonde hair cut in a brutally short style and sharp blue eyes. She's part of the Homeless Network, and she's playing the part of Meredith's school friend, our 'daughter.' We're taking Annie and Meredith on a weekend trip to Norfolk (an excuse to take Meredith somewhere safe without her parents). Annie's uncle (Lestrade) is coming with us.  
We get into Lestrade's car just in time, as Meredith's father pulls up in the driveway, his face tense and anxious.

**19:58**

**Hotel In Norfolk**

"He's going to hate you for this," Lestrade says, as I watch the pill dissolve in the glass of water. I shrug.  
"I've done it to him before." I reply, glancing behind me to where Sherlock is typing on his phone.  
The detective inspector sighs. "But not like this."  
"No." I shake my head and smile. "He needs sleep once in a while." I stand up and walk over to Sherlock, who is deep in conversation with Meredith and Annie. I'm surprised by how well he gets on with them, but then I discover the reason why.  
"You're around fifteen, yes?" He questions Meredith as I near them. She nods, and Sherlock continues. "And you read John's blog." He doesn't seem surprised and he says it as a statement rather than a question.  
Meredith nods again and Annie cracks up.  
I wordlessly hand Sherlock the glass, not meeting his gaze in case he reads what I've done. But he doesn't even look at me and takes a sip without comment. I inwardly sigh with relief, though it's not as if I feel guilty.  
"I'm going to unpack," Meredith announces and Annie follows her into their tiny room off ours. Lestrade has a separate room.  
I order room service for myself, Lestrade and the girls, knowing Sherlock won't want any- after all, he's on a case.

**20:43**

"Sherlock, look at this," Lestrade calls, pointing at something on his laptop screen. The detective comes over, leaning over mine and Lestrade's shoulders. On the screen is a news webpage, and the headline reads:

_BOMB FOUND IN BRITISH MUSEUM  
A bomb was found in the archives of the British Museum, by a security guard. It appears to have been diffused a few minutes before it was found, and it is undergoing investigation._

"The bomber strikes again," I murmur. Sherlock nods.  
"They probably need me there," Lestrade says, and right on cue, his phone buzzes with a text.

**21:25**

Half an hour later Lestrade has left and Meredith and Annie retreat to their room, chatting and giggling. They seem to get on well, which is good.  
The sleeping pills seem to be kicking in, as Sherlock's eyelids start to droop. I eventually manage to get him to lie down, though he complains. I sit in an armchair, reading, and I must doze off because when I look up it's eleven thirty. I glance over to Sherlock, and do a double take. He's twisting and turning, writhing like he has a fever. I see his lips move and I lean closer.  
"No...no! I'll never tell you!" He hisses, through gritted teeth. I realise that he's having a nightmare, albeit a bad one. I suddenly wonder what happened to him, during the two years he was away. And I have a feeling it wasn't good.

**COMING SOON**

**The Next Chapter, in which Irene discovers why Sherlock rarely sleeps.**


	8. Sherlock: Memory of Torture

**This is another short chapter, so sorry about that. Probably back to normal length for the next chapter.**

**So originally I was like I'm not going to do any Sherlock POV. Then I was like what the hell, go on then. So from now on it's Lestrade POV, Irene POV and Sherlock POV.**

**:)**

**Please R & R.**

**WARNING: Torture in this one, gore too.**

**Sherlock's POV**

**Friday 10th January**

**23:02**

**Hotel In Norfolk**

_Moriarty torture friends dying family dying. Moriarty torture friends dying family dying. Moriarty torture friends dying family dying. Moriarty torture friends dying family dying. Moriarty torture friends dying family dying._

My brain produces this endless mantra, a cycle going on and on, never stopping. I try to wake up, retreat to my Mind Palace, anything but this torturous limbo.

_Moriarty torture friends dying family dying._

I hate sleep.  
I hate Irene Adler more.

I shudder, and the repeating stops, but I have barely a second of relief before I am thrown into a vivid yet vicious flashback.

_The clank of chains. The disgusting damp smell. The click of heels on the stone floor. A hand on my chin forces my head up, and I maintain a look of cold, defiant dignity, as dark eyes bore into mine. Her face morphs into Irene Adler's, and then she blinks and it's gone. A hallucination. I'm proud when she looks away first, though my pride is short-lived. She spits at my feet.  
"Continue." She hisses, her voice fluent yet maintaining the hint of a Russian accent. She strides away and I drop my head again, exhausted. I see scuffed boots at the edge of my vision and it takes me too long to react as the chain slaps hard onto my bare shoulders, splitting the already torn skin. I hiss in agony, stifling the scream.  
"No." I whisper, repeating it louder. The chain clinks again and I react faster, dodging away from it as far as I can, dangling by my arms, on my knees. Someone curses and kicks me in the chest, knocking the breath out of me. I gasp for air and there's a mocking laugh. "I'll never tell you," I snarl under my breath.  
I hear the slosh of water and a freezing torrent cascades over my head, and again I'm gasping, coughing and spluttering. Another round of laughter.  
"Enjoy your shower?" Someone smirks. I ignore them, and concentrate on breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.  
The rattle of the chain distracts me, and I try to retreat into my Mind Palace. No such luck. The doors are firmly closed for now. I'll ponder why later.  
Instead of the chain I'm expecting, a knife is lifted to my shoulder, slashing through the skin like it is butter. Blood drips down my chest, pooling on the floor, staining my trousers. I bite my lip, refusing to show the signs of pain. I see white powder dotting the floor through hazy vision, dropped by accident. I only have a second to register what it means before it's sprinkled into my fresh wound.  
I can't stifle the scream that escapes my lips.  
After that agony is over, a new torment is prepared. A hot poker is waved in my face, the heat making me flinch. It is passed over my head and slowly lowed onto the tattered skin of my back. It takes a moment before the pain sets in, the smell of burning flesh invading my senses.  
Then all but one leave the room, their chatting and joking fading. They must not have a conscience.  
I struggle to lift my head as footsteps near me. I recognise those footsteps. Another hallucination. They're even worse than conventional torture- making me doubt what I see.  
"Go away," I hiss.  
Mycroft scowls. "Be thankful I'm here at all, dear brother. Whether I'm a hallucination or not."  
I frown. Hallucinations usually act like flashbacks, saying things the person has said to me before. Mycroft has certainly never said that.  
"Can you walk?" He asks, proceeding to unlock the chains. Now I'm sure he's not a hallucination.  
I don't answer him, instead complaining. "Took you long enough."  
Mycroft glares at me, and I humourlessly laugh, ending in a coughing fit._

The flashback ends abruptly, with me continuing said coughing fit. Someone shakes me and I wake staring into the face of Mycroft. Red fills my vision... blood, blood everywhere. My stomach heaves, although I'm not usually squeamish.  
I wake and sit bolt upright, being violently sick over the duvet. Someone clasps my shoulder- Irene, I now discover. I realise I'm shaking and I swing my legs out of the bed, crossing my arms. I stand up shakily and quickly cross the room, collapsing into an armchair.

**COMING SOON**

**The Next Chapter, in which Irene, Meredith and Annie drag Sherlock crabbing and he solves a mystery while at it.**


End file.
